The English Patient- 第14部分

“i　lost　the　child。　i　mean；　i　had　to　lose　it。　the　father　was　already　dead。　there　was　a　war。”　“were　you　in　italy？”　“in　sicily；　about　the　time　this　happened。　all　through　the　time　we　came　up　the　adriatic　behind　the　troops　i　thought　of　it。　i　had　continued　conversations　with　the　child。　i　worked　very　hard　in　the　hospitals　and　retreated　from　everybody　around　me。　except　the　child；　who　i　shared　everything　with。　in　my　head。　i　was　talking　to　him　while　i　bathed　and　nursed　patients。　i　was　a　little　crazy。”　“and　then　your　father　died。”　“yes。　then　patrick　died。　i　was　in　pisa　when　i　heard。”　she　was　awake。　sitting　up。　

“you　knew；　huh？”　“i　got　a　letter　from　home。”　“is　that　why　you　came　here；　because　you　knew？”　“no。”　“good。　i　don’t　think　that　he　believed　in　wakes　and　such　things。　patrick　used　to　say　he　wanted　a　duet　by　two　women　on　musical　instruments　when　he　died。　squeeze…box　and　violin。　that’s　all。　he　was　so　damn　sentimental。”　“yes。　you　could　really　make　him　do　anything。　find　him　a　woman　in　distress　and　he　was　lost。”　　the　wind　rose　up　out　of　the　valley　to　their　hill　so　the　cypress　trees　that　lined　the　thirty…siteps　outside　the　chapel　wrestled　with　it。　drops　of　earlier　rain　nudged　off；　falling　with　a　ticking　sound　upon　the　two　of　them　sitting　on　the　balustrade　by　the　steps。　it　was　long　after　midnight。　she　was　lying　on　the　concrete　ledge；　and　he　paced　or　leaned　out　looking　down　into　the　valley。　

only　the　sound　of　the　dislodged　rain。　

“when　did　you　stop　talking　to　the　baby？”　“it　all　got　too　busy；　suddenly。　troops　were　going　into　battles　at　the　moro　bridge　and　then　into　urbino。　maybe　in　urbino　i　stopped。　you　felt　you　could　be　shot　anytime　there；　not　just　if　you　were　a　soldier；　but　a　priest　or　nurse。　it　was　a　rabbit　warren；　those　narrow　tilted　streets。　soldiers　were　ing　in　with　just　bits　of　their　bodies；　falling　in　love　with　me　for　an　hour　and　then　dying。　it　was　important　to　remember　their　names。　but　i　kept　seeing　the　child　whenever　they　died。　being　washed　away。　some　would　sit　up　and　rip　all　their　dressings　off　trying　to　breathe　better。　some　would　be　worried　about　tiny　scratches　on　their　arms　when　they　died。　then　the　bubble　in　the　mouth。　that　little　pop。　i　leaned　forward　to　close　a　dead　soldier’s　eyes；　and　he　opened　them　and　sneered；　“can’t　wait　to　have　me　dead？　you　bitchl”　he　sat　up　and　swept　everything　on　my　tray　to　the　floor。　so　furious。　who　would　want　to　die　like　that？　to　die　with　that　kind　of　anger。　you　bitchl　after　that　i　always　waited　for　the　bubble　in　their　mouths。　i　know　death　now；　david。　i　know　all　the　smells；　i　know　how　to　divert　them　from　agony。　when　to　give　the　quick　jolt　of　morphine　in　a　major　vein。　the　saline　solution。　to　make　them　empty　their　bowels　before　they　die。　every　damn　general　should　have　had　my　job。　every　damn　general。　it　should　have　been　a　prerequisite　for　any　river　crossing。　who　the　hell　were　we　to　be　given　this　responsibility；　expected　to　be　wise　as　old　priests；　to　know　how　to　lead　people　towards　something　no　one　wanted　and　somehow　make　them　feel　fortable。　i　could　never　believe　in　all　those　services　they　gave　for　the　dead。　their　vulgar　rhetoric。　how　dare　they！　how　dare　they　talk　like　that　about　a　human　being　dying。”　there　was　no　light；　all　lamps　out；　the　sky　mostly　cloud…hidden。　it　was　safer　not　to　draw　attention　to　the　civilisation　of　existing　homes。　they　were　used　to　walking　the　grounds　of　the　house　in　darkness。　

“you　know　why　the　army　didn’t　want　you　to　stay　here；　with　the　english　patient？　do　you？”　“an　embarrassing　marriage？　my　father　plex？”　she　was　smiling　at　him。　

“how’s　the　old　guy？”　“he　still　hasn’t　calmed　down　about　that　dog。”　“tell　him　he　came　with　me。”　“he’s　not　really　sure　you　are　staying　here　either。　thinks　you　might　walk　off　with　the　china。”　“do　you　think　he　would　like　some　wine？　i　managed　to　scrounge　a　bottle　today。”　“from？”　“do　you　want　it　or　not？”　“let’s　just　have　it　now。　let’s　forget　him。”　“ah；　the　breakthrough！”　“not　the　breakthrough。　i　badly　need　a　serious　drink。”　“twenty　years　old。　by　the　time　i　was　twenty

。。”　“yes；　yes；　why　don’t　you　scrounge　a　gramophone　someday。　by　the　way；　i　think　this　is　called　looting。”　“my　country　taught　me　all　this。　it’s　what　i　did　for　them　during　the　war。”　he　went　through　the　bombed　chapel　into　the　house。　

hana　sat　up；　slightly　dizzy；　off　balance。　“and　look　what　they　did　to　you；”　she　said　to　herself。　

even　among　those　she　worked　closely　with　she　hardly　talked　during　the　war。　she　needed　an　uncle；　a　member　of　the　family’　she　needed　the　father　of　the　child；　while　she　waited　in　this　hill　town　to　get　drunk　for　the　first　time　in　years；　while　a　burned　man　upstairs　had　fallen　into　his　four　hours　of　sleep　and　an　old　friend　of　her　father’s　was　now　rifling　through　her　medicine　chest；　breaking　the　glass　tab；　tightening　a　bootlace　round　his　arm　and　injecting　the　morphine　quickly　into　himself；　in　the　time　it　took　for　him　to　turn　around。　

at　night；　in　the　mountains　around　them；　even　by　ten　o’clock；　only　the　earth　is　dark。　clear　grey　sky　and　the　green　hills。　

“i　was　sick　of　the　hunger。　of　just　being　lusted　at。　so　i　stepped　away；　from　the　dates；　the　jeep　rides；　the　courtship’　the　last　dances　before　they　died—i　was　considered　a　snob。　i　worked　harder　than　others。　double　shifts；　under　fire；　did　anything　for　them；　emptied　every　bedpan。　i　became　a　snob　because　i　wouldn’t　go　out　and　spend　their　money。　i　wanted　to　go　home　and　there　was　no　one　at　home。　and　i　was　sick　of　europe。　sick　of　being　treated　like　gold　because　i　was　female。　i　courted　one　man　and　he　died　and　the　child　died。　i　mean；　the　child　didn’t　just　die；　i　was　the　one　who　destroyed　it。　after　that　i　stepped　so　far　back　no　one　could　get　near　me。　not　with　talk　of　snobs。　not　with　anyone’s　death。　then　i　met　him；　the　man　burned　black。　who　turned　out　to　be；　up　close；　an　englishman…”it　has　been　a　long　time；　david；　since　i　thought　of　anything　to　do　with　a　man。”　　after　a　week　of　the　sikh　sapper’s　presence　around　the　villa　they　adapted　to　his　habits　of　eating。　wherever　he　was—on　the　hill　or　in　the　village—he　would　return　around　twelve…thirty　and　join　hana　and　caravaggio；　pull　out　the　small　bundle　of　blue　handkerchief　from　his　shoulder　bag　and　spread　it　onto　the　table　alongside　their　meal。　his　onions　and　his　herbs—　which　caravaggio　suspected　he　was　taking　from　the　franciscans’　garden　during　the　time　he　spent　there　sweeping　the　place　for　mines。　

he　peeled　the　onions　with　the　same　knife　he　used　to　strip　rubber　from　a　fuze　wire。　this　was　followed　by　fruit。　caravaggio　suspected　he　had　gone　through　the　whole　invasion　never　eating　from　a　mess　canteen。　

in　fact　he　had　always　been　dutifully　in　line　at　the　crack　of　dawn；　holding　out　his　cup　for　the　english　tea　he　loved；　adding　to　it　his　own　supply　of　condensed　milk。　he　would　drink　slowly；　standing　in　sunlight　to　watch　the　slow　movement　of　troops　who；　if　they　were　stationary　that　day；　would　already　be　playing　canasta　by　nine　a。m。　

now；　at　dawn；　under　the　scarred　trees　in　the　half…bombed　gardens　of　the　villa　san　girolamo；　he　takes　a　mouthful　of　water　from　his　canteen。　he　pours　tooth　powder　onto　the　brush　and　begins　a　ten…minute　session　of　lackadaisical　brushing　as　he　wanders　around　looking　down　into　the　valley　still　buried　in　the　mist；　his　mind　curious　rather　than　awestruck　at　the　vista　he　happens　now　to　be　living　above。　the　brushing　of　teeth；　since　he　was　a　child；　has　always　been　for　him　an　outdoor　activity。　

the　landscape　around　him　is　just　a　temporary　thing；　there　is　no　permanence　to　it。　he　simply　acknowledges　the　possibility　of　rain；　a　certain　odour　from　a　shrub。　as　if　his　mind；　even　when　unused；　is　radar；　his　eyes　locating　the　choreography　of　inanimate　objects　for　the　quarter…mile　around　him；　which　is　the　killing　radius　of　small　arms。　he　studies　the　two　onions　he　has　pulled　out　of　the　earth　with　care；　aware　that　gardens　too　have　been　mined　by　retreating　armies。　

at　lunch　there　is　caravaggio’s　avuncular　glance　at　the　objects　on　the　blue　handkerchief。　there　is　probably　some　rare　animal；caravaggio　thinks；　who　eats　the　same　foods　that　this　young　soldier　eats　with　his　right　hand；　his　fingers　carrying　it　to　his　mouth。　he　uses　the　knife　only　to　peel　the　skin　from　the　onion；　to　slice　fruit。　

the　two　men　take　a　trip　by　cart　down　into　the　valley　to　pick　up　a　sack　of　flour。　also；　the　soldier　has　to　deliver　maps　of　the　cleared　areas　to　headquarters　at　san　domenico。　finding　it　difficult　to　ask　questions　about　each　other；　they　speak　about　hana。　

there　are　many　questions　before　the　older　man　admits　having　known　her　before　the　war。　

“in　canada？”　“yes；　i　knew　her　there。”　they　pass　numerous　bonfires　on　the　sides　of　the　road　and　caravaggio　diverts　the　young　soldier’s　attention　to　them。　the　sapper’s　nickname　is　kip。　“get　kip。”　“here　es　kip。”　the　name　had　attached　itself　to　him　curiously。　in　his　first　bomb　disposal　report　in　england　some　butter　had　marked　his　paper；　and　the　officer　had　exclaimed；　“what’s　this？　kipper　grease？”　and　laughter　surrounded　him。　he　had　no　idea　what　a　kipper　was；　but　the　young　sikh　had　been　thereby　translated　into　a　salty　english　fish。　within　a　week　his　real　name；　kirpal　singh；　had　been　forgotten。　he　hadn’t　minded　this。　lord　suffolk　and　his　demolition　team　took